


daffodils in the balcony pot

by philthestone



Series: amazing grace [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, im gonna cry have some Smols, knew-each-other-as-kids au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7179827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We should meet at the school next time, Detective Holt," Amy tells him, tapping her pencil against the table; it has pink and yellow designs on it, patterned with something that looks like a cartoon sponge.</p><p>"Yeah!" agrees Jake. "Charles can give us those muffins that are for the afterschool kids!"</p><p>"Ugh, <em>no</em>," says Gina. "Charles Boyle is an atrocity unto this Earth."</p><p>"He's nice," says Rosa, with absolutely no inflection in her voice whatsoever, glaring at Raymond as though daring him to disagree. "I like him."</p><p>"He <em>eats goat cheese</em>," says Gina. "What kind of highschooler <em>eats goat cheese</em>."</p><p>"Can we go back to looking at Amy's binder things now?" asks Jake. He takes an obnoxious slurp of his milkshake.</p><p>"It's not a <em>binder thing</em>," says Amy, scandalized. "It's <em>extensive research</em>. Detective Holt, please explain how important this research is for our case."</p><p>Raymond stares at the lot of them and wonders if it would be prudent to inform them that Jake's insistence that they use the word <em>case</em> to describe their abysmal schooling situation is inaccurate use of NYPD vernacular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	daffodils in the balcony pot

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY ANYWAYS SO shoutout to @weaslayyy for yelling about knew-each-other-as-kids aus a while back and catalyzing this universe. 
> 
> more notes at the end; reviews are good and pure

He spots Jake sitting on a bench by the sidewalk in front of the slightly-rusted school doors, swinging his legs back and forth. The bottoms of his sneakers are scraping against the still-frozen ground with each swing, the sharp wind cutting through his thick head of curls. He’s wrapped himself in the blue hoodie that Raymond’s grown accustomed to seeing him in, visible under a leather jacket that looks to be about two sizes too big. It dwarfs his already small frame and swallows his hands in its sleeves.

Raymond locks his car, parked securely in a spot in front of the public school’s entrance, and makes his way towards the bench, pulling his jacket more tightly around him to repel the persistent chill of the March air. The sun is shining, but washed-out and pale; as though it can’t muster the energy to do much more than weakly show its pallid face. Like an invalid recovering from a long illness: the unusually cold New York winter.

On the bench, Jake seems to be talking to himself, his lips moving and his eyebrows drawn in concentration as he kicks his feet, undone shoelaces whipping back and forth in an erratic rhythm. He’s fiddling with something held in his hands, making faces as he talks, almost like he’s telling a story. Raymond gets the distinct impression that he doesn’t think anyone is watching.

Ray reaches the bench and wordlessly sits down, observing how the boy starts slightly and stiffens the moment he catches him in his periphery.

“Good afternoon, Jake.”

Jake makes a funny noise that could pass for clearing his throat and ducks his head, looking at whatever he’s holding between his fingers. He looks up again, suddenly, and makes a face at Raymond.

“I bet you’re super good at sneaking up on bad guys,” he says, shuffling into a somewhat straighter posture against the bench. His book bag, which Raymond suspects is only so easily flattened behind him because it contains no books, is pressed between his jacket and the wooden bench. Raymond raises an eyebrow at him.

“How so?”

“You’re crazy quiet when you want to be,” Jake tells him, like he’s revealing an important secret. “Like a super spy or an oak tree. Criminals can never hear you coming.” His face lights up, like he’s just thought of something amazing. And then, in an absurdly deep voice: “ _You can never see justice coming!_ Aw, man, that’s _such_ a good line!” He turns back to face the school building again, grinning so hugely that his braces glint slightly in the pale sunlight. He seems incapable of remaining still, Raymond has noticed over the past few weeks; some part of his body continuously in an unwavering state of bouncing or fidgeting. Currently, he’s reverted from swinging his feet back and forth to letting the soles of his shoes bounce against the dead grass, jiggling his knees. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold.

“Is Amy still inside?” asks Raymond, wishing that he had thought to bring a scarf with him. Jake is intent on the school building; Ray is not sure how agreeable he’d be to the suggestion that they move into the car.

“Yeah, she’s talking to Ms. Ludley about the entrance test, I think.” Jake’s fingers tighten around the object in his hands. “She should be out soon, though.”

In the interest of efficiency, Raymond had proposed meeting them at the school itself, and only then proceeding, via his car, to the small pizza joint on the other side of Brooklyn which the children treat as something of a safe haven. Certainly, Jake boasted frequently about how Sal’s pizza was _totally the best_ – Amy reassured Raymond that it really was _unparalleled_ , though she sounded somewhat begrudging – but from what he had seen of them the past few weeks, and bits of conversation he had heard, the small booth in the back left corner of Sal’s could have almost been considered something of a tree fort or clubhouse. The previous Thursday, he had entered the place to the sight of four workbooks and a thick, peeling math textbook spread out across the back table, the worksheets intermingled with two battered comic books and an opened box of store-bought cookies. Amy, who had three giant binders of library research stacked beside her head, had been concentrating on the papers in front of her, pencil in hand. Jake sat across from her and fiddled with a Rubix cube; on the edges of the booth sat Rosa, her bushy hair in its customary pigtails, and Gina, who appeared to be chewing on the end of her pen and picking the paint off of one of her nails.

(“I think the rats in our building have started their own crime syndicate,” Gina had been saying conversationally, inspecting one of her hangnails. “They scared all the drug dealers off.”

“Rats can’t think like that.” This from Rosa, scowling; across the table, Amy muttered something about studies done on the surprisingly high problem-solving abilities of rodents.)

Raymond had been shocked to discover that Amy had carried all three binders – filled with newspaper clippings, and notes on the senate, letter-writing, and national education standards – a full five subway stops between their primary school and the pizzeria. And while Jake avowed very seriously when Raymond questioned her that he had not only carried her other backpack for her but also held open all doors (something which, somewhat shockingly, all present at the table agreed was the truth), it was undeniable that a less strenuous arrangement was necessary.

After being thanked profusely by a blushing Amy, binders in hand, and being offered Gina's last stick of bubblegum for the reasonable price of eleven dollars, Raymond was almost looking forward to Rosa's noncommittal shrug. 

(“And you won’t even _believe_ how kids are going to school in the Bronx,” he remembers Amy saying, slamming one of her overflowing binders onto the table and pushing her glasses back up her nose. “It’s _atrocious_. They don’t even have proper bathrooms, much less decent math teachers!”

“They probably don’t know the word _atrocious_ either,” Rosa had supplied seriously, chewing on a cookie.

“ _I_ don’t know what the word _atrocious_ means,” Jake had muttered into his Rubix cube; Amy had silenced him with a frown that somehow managed to look quelling and sympathetic at once.

Raymond was continuously marvelling at the subtleties of children’s behaviour.)

Later, when Rosa and Gina had left – one for ballet practice and the other to get home in time to help with her mother’s daycare – Amy had, with slightly stumbling words, once again thanked Raymond for his help. Behind her, Jake had tried to balance a pizza box atop his curly head and grinned up at Raymond, and for some reason Raymond had been compelled to offer them both a smile – _and_ to offer them a ride in his car. Amy’s insistence that the New York senator could not, by any moral standard, ignore such extensive library research was an argument that Raymond thinks (remembering her barely-noticeable lisp and the professionalism of the pink scrunchy that held up her ponytail) admirably tenacious.

Now, Ray sits beside Jake on the school bench and waits for Amy to emerge from inside the building, ready for their third meeting. 

Amy is ... shockingly well-spoken for an eleven year old. There is a part of him – the part that has faced the condescension and prejudice of his superiors for the past ten years – that feels almost responsible for encouraging her unwavering determination.

(That, and the fact that Jake is sat beside him, and has likely been waiting for his friend on the freezing park bench for the past half hour, and who was the one who came back to the precinct after the lot of them were initially sent away to wonder if Raymond would consider helping them _regardless_ of the fact that police officers had no control over public schools, because he was probably very good at writing things, and all that fancy stuff – just the sort of person Amy always said they needed for _guidance_.)

Jake is turning the object in his hands over again, and humming something that sounds suspiciously like the _Magic School Bus_ theme song under his breath. His fingers slip and Raymond recognizes the label for anxiety medication clearly; a prescription that he can’t quite make out, but familiar all the same.

“Are those for you?” he asks, conversational.

Jake looks up, and for a split second his eyes narrow – on the defensive, almost, as though he’s not sure if Raymond has crossed a line, or is ready to put up walls if he does. Only for a second, however; a moment later, his features relax, and he shakes his head _no_ , flicking at the bottle with a finger.

“They’re Amy’s. She needs them for when she gets really freaked out about stuff.” He hesitates, and the crease between his eyebrows reappears. “They – they help her breathe, you know?”

Raymond feels his breath catch, but chalks it up to the cold wind and nods slowly. “Does she take them regularly?”

“Nah.” Jake turns them over in his hands again, and his tone has reverted to something casual – almost inconsequential. “Only sometimes. I just brought ‘em for her today ‘cause she was writing the entrance test for the school in Bed-Stuy, and she was scared she was gonna panic.” He turns and looks at Raymond, and his expression is uncharacteristically serious for a boy Ray had pinned as the class clown from the moment they met. “Usually she’s like, pretty good? About keeping it under control. I’ve known her forever, so some – sometimes I help her with it, but just – this application thing for the school is really stressing her out.” He turns back to face the building and kicks his feet again, his fingers picking at something on his jeans and then throwing it onto the grass.

Raymond watches the blue lint get caught by the wind and disappear from sight.

“She’s a very bright young woman,” says Raymond. “I’m sure she’ll do well.”

“She’s like the smartest person I _know!_ ” Jake bursts out, as if hearing his cue, sitting up straight and clutching the medication, the pills inside rattling with his abrupt movement. “She’s reading like _all the time_ , it’s just – if they don’t let her in they’re – they’re crazy stupid!”

He suddenly strikes Raymond as so sincere – the flash of defensiveness in his too-big brown eyes, and the pinching of his expression, the slight crack in his voice on the word _crazy_. Dwarfed in his leather jacket and clinging to Amy Santiago’s anxiety pills, twelve year old Jake Peralta looks as though he’s ready to personally fight the school administrators if it means that Amy will be accepted into a school prestigious and competitive enough to allow her a fighting chance to go to university at somewhere like Columbia. Raymond feels an odd twinge in his chest at the sight of him. He’s a little small for his age, but his bright demeanour has been filling up rooms and spaces to an almost overwhelming degree from the moment Raymond met him, ceaselessly bouncing and smiling and pulling at Amy’s pigtails when she’s not paying attention.

Jake’s dream is to become “a super cool cop like John McClane”; a statement that Raymond, as the only real-life detective Jake apparently knows, wonders if he should address at some point.

But it’s abundantly clear that Jake, with his sometimes inarticulate words and his wide, toothy grins, has multiple hopes and aspirations on Amy’s behalf, and against his better judgement Raymond says, quietly:

“With a friend as supportive as you are, I think Amy is capable of doing anything at all.”

Jake stills, his feet freezing against the grass, looking at Raymond. After a moment he seems to deflate, his frown easing away. He ducks his head and fiddles with the bottle in his hands.

“She’s super smart though, that has nothing to do with me.”

Raymond raises another eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I almost bombed my math test last week again.”

It’s muttered, rushed – the type of confession that sounds as though, were it spoken to anyone else, it would not have been uttered so quietly, or with such effort put into making the words feel small. Jake kicks his feet again and Raymond presses his hands deeper into his pockets, willing the cold away.

“I see,” he says, because he cannot think of anything else appropriate.

“The numbers weren’t making any _sense!_ ” (And there’s a sudden lick of frustration that creeps under his protested words.) Jake shakes his head, kicking his feet again. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. Amy’s probably gonna be President of the whole United States one day and annoy everyone with her dumb binders all the time, so anyone who doesn’t realize that is just dumb and not worth it.” He grins suddenly, eyes lighting up warm and excited. “She’ll look so cool on all the stamps.”

“I am not certain,” says Raymond, “that presidents go on stamps.”

“What!” Jake pouts. “Gina’s Mom says _all_ important people go on stamps.”

“Hm,” says Raymond. “Perhaps when Amy is president, she can establish a law that dictates her likeness go on stamps.”

Jake turns to look at him again, a hint of surprise playing around the part of his lips. The wind once again ruffles his hair, blowing it in his left eye, but he ignores it; a lopsided grin is tugging at his mouth.

“Y’know, Detective Holt, you’re a lot funner than I thought you’d be to hang out with.”

“A lot more fun,” Raymond corrects automatically, and then frowns. “That did … nothing to prove your statement.”

Jake giggles, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

“No, no, you’re right. I’ve been told oak trees tell very good jokes.”

Jake grins again, rosy cheeks dimpling in the weak afternoon sunlight. His smile is unguarded and delighted in a way that makes Raymond feel oddly privileged.

(He remembers the afternoon of their first meeting, looking up to see Jake once more standing at his desk clutching his backpack to his chest, asking if he could speak to him, again, about something _crazy important_. His first instinct had been to ask, “Won’t your father and mother be wondering where you are?” a statement that was met with a sudden frown and a deliberate inspection of the floor, followed quickly by a muttered and blurted, “My Mom's working, it's no big deal.”

Jake looked regretful of his words the moment they slipped out of his too-wide twelve-year-old mouth, and Raymond, suddenly aware of Terry’s curious eyes on him from the other side of the bullpen where the young intern was making coffee, had closed his case file and asked him what the _crazy important_ thing was.)

In response to Jake’s brilliant grin, Raymond raises his eyebrows. 

He’s saved by having to say anything when the school doors – heavy and creaking – bang open.

Amy’s ponytail is flapping and her backpack is bouncing against her jacket, and she’s already talking a mile a minute.

“– On question twenty-four A, I _swear_ I should’ve known how to divide decimals but the place value system they’d had was _not_ standard, it just wasn’t, I’ve read nine prep books for this, and I – good afternoon, Detective Holt – and the _comprehension_ oh my gosh I think I misspelled _there_ as _their_ and that’s it, I’ve doomed myself, how could I _make_ that kind of blunder Santi- _ago_ –”

Jake has already bounded up to his feet, laughing, and he plants his hands on Amy’s shoulders now, fingers squeezing through the thick material of her jacket.

“Jeez, Santiago, I didn’t even ask how it went yet!”

Amy sucks in a deep breath and clamps her mouth shut, looking what could only be described as distraught. The large plastic frames of her glasses have slid down on her nose, and her dark bangs are messy against her forehead, a clear indicator that she ran the whole way from the classroom to the front yard. Her cheeks are already pink, whether from the cold or the exertion or the stress, Raymond isn’t sure.

“Sorry,” she squeaks.

“So,” says Jake, his hands still on her shoulders. His voice, while light and teasing, carries an undercurrent of softness that Raymond is unfamiliar with. “How’d it go?”

“ _I think I misspelled there as their –”_

“Woah, woah, woah, hey – Amy, Ames, c’mon. I bet you did great, no one’s even gonna notice that unless they’re a weirdo like you! What’d Ms Ludley say?”

Amy swallows, her brows drawn tightly against her forehead.

“She – she said she thought I’d have a fighting chance, but –”

“There you go!” Jake’s voice is loud and amplified in the empty schoolyard, filling up the cold March air with its conviction. “Ms. Ludley wouldn’t tell you that if she didn’t mean it, you nerd.”

“You think so?” Amy’s hands, wrapped in soft-looking cotton mittens, are wound around each other tightly in front of her. Jake bumps her shoulder with his.

“I know so, because I am clearly the smartest person in the world.” His face lights up suddenly, braces glinting once more – “You know what this means?”

Amy shakes her head, still looking hesitant. Between them, Raymond catches Jake’s fingers pressing the bottle of anxiety pills into Amy’s mitten-covered hands.

“Celebratory ice cream milkshakes at Sal’s!”

“But I didn’t get into anything yet!” Her voice is laughing now, though, if perhaps still a little strained. Her round cheeks are scrunching with the beginnings of a smile, something that Raymond has noticed is ... often inevitable if one spends enough time with Jake. 

Jake grabs her hand despite her protests and starts running towards the car, curls bouncing as he goes, and Raymond sees it as his cue to stand and follow. Amy lets herself be tugged after him, pushing her glasses back up her nose in a familiar gesture. The car door is unlocked and he wonders at the odd surge of affection he feels at the sound of Amy giggling while being herded into the car, nearly overbalancing with the weight of her binder-heavy backpack. Jake’s, “ _Woah_ , we’re sitting in the back of a police car like bad guys!” is almost _too_ enthusiastic in its volume and tone.

He turns the key in the car’s ignition and attributes the warmth in his chest to the blast of hot air from the heating system, listening to Jake and Amy arguing over the appropriateness of indulging in celebratory ice cream milkshakes in the event of a non-celebration, somehow having managed to seat themselves shoulder to shoulder despite the large space in the backseat of the old Crown Victoria police car.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:  
> \- so basically Maya was like "knew each other as kids au!!!!" and I was like "YES", only, I was reading Johnathan Kozol's _Amazing Grace_ at the time, which is literally the most important book I've ever read in my life, but the POINT is the book mentions Brooklyn in its discussion of sub-par children's education, and -- suddenly -- I had an idea. The school in Bed-Stuy that Amy wants to get into is also real, and did (I don't know if it still does) have a problem with admittance of POC, and POC from low-income neighborhoods. 
> 
> \- ultimately the climax of the season two finale in this verse is that Detective Holt is transferred out of the childrens' precinct and into PR following his promotion to Captain, and can't stay to see their letter campaign to fruition. Jake, who at eleven years old feels the original sting of his father's departure _very_ keenly, is absolutely devastated
> 
> \- :)))))))))))
> 
> \- anyways i hope yall enjoyed,,


End file.
